Howl
by Destiel In The Impala
Summary: Dean lives in the wilderness and is trying to make it through the winter. Castiel is an avid hiker and comes across Dean in a less than convenient way.
1. Chapter 1

It's hard for Dean to get his food in the winter. All the animals take shelter, shielding themselves from the snow.

He spots a lone buck, however, nestled against a nearby tree. Although the beast is naturally powerful and dominant, it looks weak and scared when apart from its family.

Dean's lithe movements go undetected as he makes his way through the small gathering of snow covered trees. He crouches, thinking through his tactics. It's a rushed thought process as he's mad with hunger, his only source of food recently had been shriveled up berries. A sharp flare of hunger originating from deep within his stomach snaps Dean out of his planning and he pounces, almost dropping his spear with the suddenness of the movement. The buck lets out a loud groan as Dean's sharpened weapon comes into contact with its jugular. Blood spurts from the wound as Dean rips the spear from the flesh. It is a satisfying sight for the famished man. The blood continues to seep from the gash and the buck carries on groaning, struggling out of Dean's choke hold. It staggers a few feet before beginning to sink to its knees. The loss of blood becomes too much for it as collapses, a low, continuous moan escaping from its mouth. Dean grins at the sound; it means food's almost ready.

Dean enjoys the sight of the life slowly draining out from the buck's eyes. Maybe he's proud of the fact that he did that to the animal and the sense of power he feels. Once the buck finally splutters and twitches one last time, Dean hastily grabs hold of a leg and drags it through the snow. Red colours the snow beneath the carcass as Dean pulls. White snowflakes settle atop the dead animal as it is hauled from the small clearing. Dean reaches the fringe of the forest he'd been hiding in mere minutes beforehand. Under the cover of the trees he can hopefully start up a fire.

He picks up two twigs from the rock hard ground, testing them to see if they're too damp to catch light. After rubbing them together, Dean finds that they are adequate and stashes them in the hem of his ripped trousers. Dean takes as much time as his stomach will allow to gather the firewood, eager for warmth and to eat his kill.

The flames lick the air weakly, the cold preventing them from performing to their full capacity. It's enough for Dean, though, and he grabs his spear in preparation for cutting up the buck. Thankfully the winter is harsh enough so that no insects have latched themselves onto the buck's skin. However, the weather is bittersweet to Dean as, although his meal has mercifully not been spoiled, he is freezing to the bone. He's tough when it comes to the weather, but being shirtless in a winter such as this means it's hard for him to simply ignore the biting cold. Dean's been out here a few winters but past experience doesn't make it any easier to deal with.

Snow falls around him as he cuts away the fur on the beast. It's not too distracting to him though, as most of the flakes have been caught in the thin canopy of leaves above his head. He continues to hack away the fur and then moves on to the meat. He stabs at it, prepares it for the cooking process and then spears a large chunk, hovering it over the fire. The heat begins to thaw away the thin sheen of snow, water dripping onto the fire and causing it to hiss occasionally. Dean sways slightly, shivering as a sharp gust of wind whistles past him. The fire flickers but does not go out and Dean turns the it around, cooking the whole piece of meat.

When it's cooked well enough, Dean ravages it, gulping down the hot meat. He doesn't take the time to appreciate the taste of it because of the insatiable hunger still present in his stomach. He finishes, still peckish but wary of the fact that he'll have to ration his supply of meat if he doesn't want to stick to the berries.

Dean lies down on his side, resting against the mostly dry earth. Though he is full aware of the consequences of being exposed to such cold temperatures, he doesn't care. His eyelids drift closed and he attempts to fall unconscious despite the bitter wind whipping at his body. Another night of poor sleep is sure to follow.

* * *

**I probably shouldn't start another fic due to the fact that I need to update all my other ones.. Meh.**

**I don't even know if this is a good idea or not, I am just stuck with my other writing so.. Here this is..**


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's scrambling over the ice coated rocks. He keeps losing his footing so it's hard to keep up a steady pace when he's running and he's losing the rabbit. It burrows into a hole and Dean can't get to it now and he most certainly can't dig with his bare hands; the ground is rock solid.

He sighs and looks into the distance, trying to look for more food but all he sees is a dirt road, coated almost completely with the ice. The only giveaway that it's a hiking trail is the fact that the path is slightly more sunken than the ground around it. Dean decides to take his chances, starting to jog down the path. He thinks that just maybe there will be a lone hiker who can provide him with some nutrients. He's aware he looks as if he's been living in the forest for years and he has, but that doesn't help his 'approachable' appeal.

He seems to jog for hours, the bitter wind chilling his bones and he's about to give up hope but then he sees a patch of leaves rustle under the thin coat of snow. His grip on his spear tightens and he plunges it wildly into the pile of crisp leaves. They crunch as the spear cuts through them and then they still. Dean prays that he's caught at least something as the cold's given him a greater hunger than usual and his need for meat is a rather prominent and dominating thought in his brain. To his sweet delight, blood seeps out from the leaves and colours the snow in a thick, sickly red. His lungs are burning from the jogging and the icy air entering and exiting them but he grins all the same, pleased with his kill even though he doesn't know what it is yet.

Shoving the now bloody leaves out of the way, Dean finds that he has killed a hare. Another smile stretches across his chapped lips. The hare is substantially bigger than the rabbit he'd been chasing previously so he'll be more filled after consuming it. The reason he now needed to hunt again was that the amount of meat the buck had left was dwindling and, as the buck had a better taste than some of his other kills, he wanted to keep some to eat at a later date and also to ensure he'd have a meal if the weather became simply too cold.

Dean throws the hare in the air and then catches it, playing with his kill. He flings it over his shoulder, hands clasped firmly around its legs, and makes his way back down the path, retracing his footprints. He's on a high, more so than normal as it's the dead of winter and he has some meat to eat, not just hard berries.

He makes it back to his camp and tosses the hare onto a flat rock, brushing the snow away before doing so. He searches for some firewood that had been sheltered from the snowfall and isn't too damp to use before returning to his camp. It's then that he notices the hare is missing. He curses and punches the nearest tree. He knows he should have been more protective of his kill but he wasn't thinking, too happy to remember basic things such as 'make sure your meal is secure'.

Dean buries his head in his hands and sees that the last of the buck is also gone. It seems he must go and find some berries if he wishes to sate his ever growing hunger.

* * *

**Short update, I know and I'm sorry.. It's a bit awful and filler-y.. But my mind's kind of elsewhere at the moment aha. I hope this is okay enough though. It's nearly seven in the morning and I haven't slept and I'm updating for you. I expect sympathy. No, I really don't.. I just hope you like it. I should stop typing now.**


	3. Chapter 3

Dean's acutely trained himself to kill. He has to be an expert in the art of hunting in order to survive. He sights a slight movement at the base of a tree, a clawing sound at the root and a shuffle of leaves. It seems to be similar to his last kill and he crouches, desperation radiating throughout his bones; he hasn't eaten in days, simply relying on the liquid of melted snow to keep him alive. Berries are scarce, as is available prey.

He poises his spear, ready for the attack and lurches forward, eyes lit up with determination and feral hunger. As his sharpened weapon sinks into flesh a guttural scream of agony sounds rather than the pathetic squeak he expected. His eyes widen and nostrils flare as he cowers away from the sound; familiar yet distant, a faint memory.

'Fuck!' the voice shouts as the blood coated spear-end finally completely draws out of the flesh.

Dean closes further in on himself, scared and waiting for the figure to reveal itself. He looks for the source of the noise and spots a man half-hiding behind the tree trunk, cradling his wounded hand. He had been in plain sight the whole time, Dean's vision clouded by hunger, refusing the rest of the body to register the man at the time of the attack.

Curse words fall from the mouth like a mantra, the pain of the injury making Dean edge closer, the instinct to protect bubbling under his mud covered skin.

Dean comes into view and the man flinches back, mouth open wide and terror in his eyes.

'Stay back!' he barks, shuffling backwards.

Dean looks down, embarrassed and scared. He hasn't used his voice in years and he searches his brain for words to say, for the ability to speak, to say _something_.

'I… sorry… I…' Dean purses his lips, the sound of his voice strange to his ears and the function of thinking about another person rather than just himself and his kill seeming difficult.

'What the hell!' the man screeches, forever edging away from Dean, blood pouring from the injury.

'Thought you were… rabbit,' Dean shrugs. He lifts his eyes to meet the other man's. The other man stops moving away, becoming caught in Dean's gaze.

'Do I look like a mother fucking rabbit to you? You're insane!' the man yells, his dark hair quivering with each word.

'I am… deeply… sorry,' Dean forces out, a feeling of guilt present in his gut and a hint of regret. The emotions are taking over his hunger, a welcome, bittersweet distraction from the burn of it.

'Why the hell are you hunting rabbits with… _that_ anyway?!' The hiker gestures wildly at Dean's homemade weapon.

He looks at his own spear and then back up at the hurt man, 'Made it m'self. Need to eat. Catch rabbits.'

The other man's head tilts to the side and he studies the wild man intensely with his blue eyes, 'You… _live_ out here?'

Dean nods enthusiastically, grinning, 'Home.'

'And you hurt me because you wanted to eat me,' the man's Adams apple bobs as he gulps nervously, his deep voice becoming higher towards the end of his speech.

'N-no! No! Rabbit! I thought you were a-' Dean coughs, his voice hoarse and scratchy from disuse, before continuing, '-thought you were a rabbit.'

The man nods in understanding, visibly calming at Dean's words. Suddenly he looks down at his hand and assesses the damage, 'Jesus Christ.'

'You hurt?'

The man looks up at Dean with a nonplussed expression, 'You exerted enough force in the attack to kill a small animal with that spear there. Of course I am hurt.'

Dean recoils again and hugs his knees, 'Deeply, deeply sorry.'

'I suppose I forgive you, maybe it was my fault and I shouldn't have been so careless searching for my dropped compass in the leaves when there was a wild man present. I was just _asking_ to be brutally stabbed.'

Dean peeks up at the man from under his lashes, 'Sarcasm?' he asks tentatively.

'It appears the tables have turned.'

Dean gives the man a confused look, urging him to explain himself, 'My people skills are somewhat "rusty". It is refreshing to come across someone who is more socially inept than myself.'

'Living in the forest can… do that to a guy,' Dean mumbles.

'Indeed. Now we can sit here and have after-stab pleasantries while I bleed to death, or we can establish just what you expect to do about this.' The man stands up, cradling his bleeding hand to his chest. The blood begins to stain the hiker's waterproof coat.

'You s-speak funny.'

'You speak funny yourself, now what exactly are we going to do to- damn- to fix my rapidly draining hand?' the man winces in pain as he flexes his digits, boring his eyes into Dean.

'Have things at my base,' Dean replies smoothly.

'Fantastic. How far away is it?'

'F-follow me,' Dean responds, inwardly cursing at the quality of his speech. Slowly, without speaking to the damaged man behind him, he navigates his way through the trees he's come to know so well.

They reach the clearing, the blood stained tree stump a painful reminder of the buck he could be eating to satisfy the ferocious burn of hunger in the pit of his stomach had it not been stolen.

'We're here.'

* * *

**I know how ridiculous my update timings are, I'm incredibly sorry, but I shall hopefully continue writing this soon, although there are exams coming up that I have to procrastinate from revising for…**


	4. Chapter 4

'It's nice,' the stranger comments, a dubious look on his face.

'S'good enough… for me.'

Dean walks forward and brushes his hand over the buck's dried blood, cursing to himself again.

'Oh, God!' the man shouts as he watches Dean. He scrambles backwards, still cradling his busted hand. 'What the hell is that?!'

'B…buck's blood. It was… it was stolen,' Dean replies sullenly.

The man nods, awkwardly shifting on his feet. He begins to move towards Dean and Dean responds by shuffling backwards. The reaction appears to be strange to the hiker and he tilts his head, stopping in his tracks.

'What is your name?' he asks, bluntly.

Dean blanches and looks down at his filth and blood stained hands. The crusted pattern the dried liquid has made is interesting and he keeps his eyes on it.

'Do you even have a name?' the stranger pushes, still clutching his injured hand to his coat clad chest.

'Dean.'

'Well, Dean, my name is Castiel. Now that we're on civilized terms, may you please tell me how you plan to assist me in soothing my injury?'

The man's cold stare causes Dean to shrink back slightly. He doesn't know how to progress, only ever really having to look after himself and his little brother in the far away past.

'Don't have any medical… equipment. Don't have anything, really,' Dean mumbles. His speech comes more fluently, however. It's easier to talk when he can use his voice often.

'Then… do you mind telling me why you brought me back here? I'm bleeding rather a lot.'

A frown creases Dean's brow and he looks at the dirt beneath his feet. 'Safe?' His voice is unsure and makes Castiel groan.

'This doesn't seem very safe to me, _Dean_.'

Dean's frown deepens as he listens to the stranger's irritated tone. 'There's nowhere else!'

Castiel's cold laugh makes Dean flinch; he's used to the loud wails of dying animals, used to the sound of blade cutting through flesh, but the hollow sound of laughter is almost foreign to him. 'Of course there's somewhere else! My house! A hospital! Literally _anywhere_ but here!'

The hiker's words hurt Dean more than he lets on. 'I'll look after you. I did this to you.'

Castiel rolls his eyes and then focuses them on Dean. 'I'm going to die of blood loss under your care, Dean, you do realise this.'

'Not main artery or anythin'. You should be fine,' Dean replies, disinterest in his voice as he recovers from the hurt.

Castiel scoffs and turns around, eyeing his surroundings. 'So, here we have forest, forest… and, oh look! More forest! All useful in aiding the injured, I imagine.'

'Don't appreciate your sarcasm.'

They stand in silence for a moment before Dean collects some snow and dumps it over the hiker's hand without warning. Castiel jerks back and shouts at the cold shock, snow tumbling off his aching hand.

'What are you doing?!'

'Cleaning the wound. This snow is clean.' Dean focuses on rubbing the rapidly melting ice into the wound. His movements are rough and irritate the dip of split skin.

'You're hurting me,' Castiel declares, squinting his eyes in reaction to the pain.

'It'll be over soon.'

The quiet settles between them once more and Dean continues to clear the wound, numbing Castiel's hand.

'Are you hungry?' Dean asks and briefly glances up to meet Castiel's eyes, making himself address the man's other needs.

Castiel shakes his head, 'No. And even if I was, do you really think I'd eat _your_ food?'

Dean's brow creases, 'Hey, berries are…' Dean searches for the appropriate word before sighing and admitting, 'boring.'

At Castiel's chuckle, Dean's eyes widen. It's a nice sound and it surprises him, such a contrast to his previous laugh.

'What?'

'Laughter… Don't hear much of that anymore.'

Castiel's once pain warped face turns sympathetic. Dean decides he doesn't like that look on Castiel and he especially doesn't like that look directed at him. A flicker of his old, fiery personality flares up, inviting him to reply with a snarky comment. He barely bites down the retort and forces himself to focus on Castiel's still bleeding cut. It's deep and Dean knows he can only help to a certain extent. He's used to bite wounds, he knows them, can sort them out for himself when he gets them. He's used to grazes, welts and scratches, he can deal with those. He knows gashes that have formed when he catches his leg on a particularly sharp rock, he can tend to them. What he doesn't know, not anymore at least, is how to deal with lesions caused from the end of his spear, a man made wound. The abrasion is something he's not sure how to care for. It's incredibly deep, his weapon almost came out the other side of Castiel's hand and Dean thinks it's astounding that the man's reaction was so toned down considering. A high pain threshold comes in handy in the harsh forest and Dean is thankful he himself has one, however, there's only so much he can deal with which is one of the reasons he's always so careful with his spear.

'Are you… better?'

A choked out laugh leaves Castiel's lips, another sound Dean decides he needs to catalogue in his brain; it sounds different from the other laughs, and Dean craves the different notes, the new noises that only a human can produce. 'Ice can only do so much.'

Dean grunts and nods, his own fingers numb from handling the cold snow. 'Do you maybe have… something in your bag? To help?' He vaguely gestures to Castiel's back. Castiel stares back at Dean incredulously.

'No. I didn't expect to be mauled by a _wild man_.'

The frown on Dean's face appears to be becoming permanent and he huffs, stepping back slightly. 'What if I had been a… bear?'

'I wouldn't be alive.' Castiel shrugs.

'You don't seem to care.'

'Not much to live for, is there? What's life without a little life-threatening, risk-taking adventure in the Alaskan wilderness?'

'Family!' Dean snaps, suddenly angry at Castiel for coming across as ungrateful for his family. 'You live for family.'

'I don't have them,' Castiel replies quietly, staring down at the angry red of his hand.

Dean swallows thickly and sighs, 'Sorry.'

Castiel smirks and draws his eyes up to meet Dean's. 'Huh, a sympathetic Neanderthal.'

A sound close to a growl rolls out of Dean's throat and he retreats to the tree stump next to the one where the buck once was. Castiel has the courtesy to at least look guilty and follows Dean, standing in front of him with an uncomfortable expression on his features.

'It's weird.'

'What is?'

'Feeling guilty about teasing my attacker.'

'I didn't mean to hurt you!' Dean shouts, passion in his voice.

'I know,' Castiel mumbles. He sighs and sinks down to the ground, snow instantly soaking the material of his trousers. He chooses to change the topic, 'So tell me, Dean, how did you find yourself in this… situation?'

Dean knows Castiel is asking out of his own personal interest but it's a push too far for Dean. He instantly pushes himself up from the stump and removes himself from the situation, scrambling through the biting snow to get away from the man. He misses the look of bewilderment on the hiker's face in his hurry to escape and refuses to let himself think about the liquid furiously stinging his eyeballs.


End file.
